White Collar: Conflicted Interest (Tag for Controlling Interest S5:4)
by Ruahnna
Summary: There was much left unsaid, but not-apparently-unthought during the episode Controlling Interest. This story offers a peek inside what they might have been thinking, despite what they might have been saying...
1. Chapter 1

_**Conflicted Interest, **Part 1_

Neal ran. At least—he _seemed_ to. His chest heaved as his legs gobbled up the pavement or floor…or…_where_ was he? He pulled up short as something acrid assaulted his nose, face screwing up against the sharp pain of it, like an ice-cream headache, only…only… He blinked, the light flooding his eyes, and recoiled. There was someone directly in his line of sight, too close, a cloying, sweet smell above the other. He pushed upright, or tried to, trying to get his bearing.

"No. I…have to be getting back."

He felt shaky and off-balance, his usual confident gait disjointed and ungraceful. He pressed the elevator button but the thought of stepping into that small, smothering box made him recoil. He saw the door marked "stairs" and took it. The walk might do him good.

He stumbled once on the stairs, but the adrenaline that shot through him with the fear of falling seemed to help, clearing some of the cobwebs away. He quickened his pace on the stairs, feeling better for physical exertion, and burst into the lobby without remembering much about the trip down. He crossed to the glass doors quickly, feeling as though someone were watching him. The hair on the back of his neck prickled, but he fought the urge to smooth it.

The glass was cool beneath his fingertips as he pushed the door open, and the air that rushed to swirl around him was bracing. He had not worn a coat—had he?—and the air was pleasantly brisk but not too cold. He stopped, taking in big droughts of air, feeling his lungs expand to capacity—and some of the trapped, claustrophobic feeling seemed to leave him. He started walking, heading…_where_ was he going? To Peter, of course. To wherever Peter was, because…because Peter meant safe harbor, meant a place where he could rest. _Peter _would know what to do. He_ always _knew what to do. All he had to do was tell _Peter_, tell Peter _everything_ and it would be_ all…_everything? Did he have to tell _everything_?

Memory, or fragments of it, washed over him, and his heart rate picked up again. He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut, but whether to keep thought _out_ or _in_ he wasn't sure.

He…he had been talking to the doctor, playing word games, sparring. He had enjoyed it—_part_ of it anyway—had liked the clash of wills, the clang of one sharp intellect butting up against another, but it had not—_he_ had not like _all_ of it. With Peter, it was _always fun. Yes, always. Yes, fun—_even when the stakes were high, the risks stupendous. When Peter had been chasing him, closing in on him as he sprinted across Europe, leaving a trail of art crumbs, heists and forgeries in his wake—_that_ had been wonderful, exhilarating…_fleeting_. But it was nothing like the thrill of working in close proximity to Peter—_with_ him, _against_ him—it didn't matter. Peter _always_ knew what to do, always knew what _he_ was doing. Except…except now…now Peter _didn't_ know, _couldn't_ guess. Is that what was wrong? Is _that_ why he felt so lost?

Lost? He wasn't _lost_. He was going to Peter, to the office. He stopped and squinted at the building around him, then the street sign. He couldn't walk from here—he would never make it, and he needed to make it, needed to get to Peter. He hailed a cab on autopilot, tumbling into the back and giving the address in a rush of words. He must have sounded strange, sounded at odds with his appearance, for the cabbie raised his eyebrows at him in the mirror. Neal smiled reflexively, his con-man smile, facile and meaningless and….

He smiled too much. _She_ had _said_ so. She—Dr. Thomas—had said he smiled when he should be…what _should_ he be doing? _Finding Peter_, his brain supplied. He should be finding Peter. He looked out the window, saw the building flashing by, felt the car lurch to the curb. He fumbled automatically for his wallet, pulled a bill out and shoved it over with a muttered "thanks." _Manners always matter_, his brain prompted. Who had said that, _told_ him that? Ellen? His mother? He couldn't remember.

He managed the car door, stepped disjointedly onto the curb, then walked to the door, through it, and stopped—panicked—at the usual checkpoint. They waved him through and he sidled toward the elevators. Blake saw him, waved, then did what he must have assumed was a surreptitious double-take. Neal felt sweat break out over his back, felt hot and cold and shaky at the same time. He had only thought about getting to Peter, being seen by Peter. Somehow, he had not quite factored in _being seen by others_ in this state. He tried to put on calm like a jacket.

"Hey," he said, and Blake looked back at him, wide-eyed and uncertain.

"Caffrey," Blake returned, although it came out more like a question. Neal kept smiling, not sure what else to do, but every impulse was telling him to run, to bolt, to—

The elevator door opened and Blake ushered him in, probably afraid to have him at his back in the state he was in. They rode up to the 11th floor without talking, Blake trying to look un-curious, him grinning like an idiot. A couple of folks from the accounting department got on, returning his smile, and it helped a little. He concentrated on breathing and not talking. He had _no idea_ what might come out if he attempted small talk. At _last_, the elevator stopped and Blake reached out and put a hand over the door so the sensor would keep it open. Neal practically sprinted out onto the floor, pushing through the double doors and almost jogging up the steps to the conference room, to Peter.

He didn't remember what he said at first, something about Dr. Summers, about the session, about being drugged. Peter looked at him with alarm, with concern, and immediately Neal felt better, even if he felt very, _very_ out of control. Jones was there, too, and he put a hand on his shoulder—a warm hand, a _friendly hand_—on his shoulder before disappearing to get something…something necessary. He was surprised when the agent returned with a medic, more surprised still when she started rolling up his sleeve. What had happened to his jacket? Then she was looking into his eyes with a light, feeling behind his ears with soft, cool hands.

"Your hands are cold," said Neal automatically, and she had smiled at him.

"Sorry," she said. "I should have warmed them, I suppose."

"No," Neal said solemnly, looking into her brown eyes. "They're nice. Nice and soft."

Behind him, Peter cleared his throat and Neal saw the medic smile and bite her lip, but when he swung the chair around—overshooting on the swing—he saw only Peter, Peter who was looking at him with exasperation.

Immediately, Neal felt ashamed, a hot blush creeping up his cheeks. He must have done something wrong. Another wave of memories rushed over him—Hagan's sneering face, Siegel's lifeless body, Peter's face as he'd told him about the fate of his handler. He _had_ done something wrong—something _terrible_, and when Peter found out he wouldn't, he—it _wouldn't_ be all right, wouldn't be—

"Neal. Neal? Hey…." Peter loomed over him and Neal flinched, and though Neal didn't see it, that flinch sent a sharp stab of misery and uncertainty through his former partner. In the very act of bending over him, Peter sat down _instead_, keeping a distance between them that felt stiff and awkward and unhappy.

"I…I feel kind of sick," Neal said, wondering if it was really true, or if it just seemed like the right thing to say to cover the creeping mortification he was experiencing. He tried to take in air, feeling smothery. "I think I might—"

Peter bridged the gap despite his reservations, one warm hand on the back of Neal's neck. Neal felt that hand in his hair, gentle but demanding, pushing his head down between his knees and the room stopped spinning almost immediately. "Stay that way a second," Peter murmured, and Neal nodded, or tried to, but Peter's grip was firm, insistent, holding him against any sudden movement, against any sudden _confessions_….

Confessions…?

"_Peter!_" Neal exclaimed, trying to sit up. "Peter, I think I might have told Dr. Summers—"

"Shhh. I know. You already _told_ us," Peter soothed.

"I—I did?" Neal asked. He didn't remember, didn't remember _any_ of it, but Peter was still here, still listening, so it was okay, it was all right…. _No_. Neal inhaled sharply as a wave of clarity broke over his bewilderment. _No._ It _wasn't_ okay. Siegel was dead, and he was—

Peter was speaking again. "Just sit tight for a little while, okay Neal?" he said. "I promise—we're going to get to the bottom of this."

It was official. Neal really _did_ feel sick.

He stuck out the rest of the day, but as the clock rolled on toward quitting time, Neal felt himself fading. After sitting with his head down for a bit—and he did _not_ throw up, a small triumph—he had returned to his work, the work on their case. Around him, the office hummed, but in a subdued way that was actually a relief. People were polite, but not solicitous. He did not know what they thought about his two-week hiatus from work—what they had been told—but he was too spent to do even a_ little_ intel. It was enough to be upright at his desk, feeling shaky/weak but covering well enough for show. Things perked up when Griffith came in to talk with them again, and he actually felt better as they walked up the steps together. Movement helped, and he felt more clearheaded in the conference room than he had at his desk.

Still, talking with Peter after Griffith went home seemed to leach all that he had left and he was just happily noting there was less than an hour to go when Clinton poked his head into the conference room and offered to drive him home. It was a testament to how terrible he felt that he didn't even try to argue. Peter had started to walk down with them, which made Neal feel better and worse at the same time, but the phone had rung, and Peter had held up a finger, then a hand, then sighed and waved them on without him. Neal allowed himself to be installed in the elevator and leaned weakly on the wall for support.

"Hell of a thing, Caffrey. Glad you're okay," said Clinton.

Neal started to nod, but became afraid his head might fall off from the motion and grimaced instead.

"Hell of a thing," he echoed weakly.

He had trouble getting in the car to the point where Clinton wondered how the deuce he'd managed to get into a cab to _come_ there earlier. He wondered idly _why_—disoriented and upset—Caffrey hadn't tried to run, but then, maybe Caffrey was done running from trouble. Could it be? It didn't _sound_ right. Clinton couldn't say why, but—despite the fact that Neal had been stuck like glue to the FBI since Peter had been incarcerated, minus the two-plus weeks of house internment—he couldn't shake the feeling that Caffrey seemed eternally poised for flight, seemed always aware of where the _exits_ were.

He closed the door on Neal and went around to the driver's side, and neither of them had any stomach for small talk on the way.

June was all solicitousness. It took Neal a couple of days to realize Peter must have called her, must have warned her, so when he arrived, walked in by a stubborn Jones who was too big to fight with and too patient to argue with, she was there to meet him. There were plenty of employees she could have called, but she met him herself, and he did not even protest when she put an arm around his waist and started him up the stairs.

"Do you—can I help you with, um…" Clinton trailed off uncomfortably. June was smiling at him, but it was more polite than friendly, and he had seen her look of disapproval when she'd opened the door and seen him standing there with Neal.

"Thank you, Agent—_Jones_, isn't it?" she said.

"Yes, ma'am," said Clinton differentially. "Clinton Jones. We met at the speakeasy."

"That's right—we _did_," June said. "I _thought_ you looked familiar." Her words were polite but her manner was cool. She started to turn away.

"Yes ma'am. Are you..are you _sure_ I can't help? I'm happy to be of service."

June had smiled at him a little more genuinely, and the look she shot him was discerning. "I'm sure you are," she said, "but I've got him now." She turned and helped Neal up to his room.

He would have sworn he wasn't hungry, but the soup smelled good, and June took the steaming tray from the maid who brought it and carried it over to the couch. He had refused to lay on the bed—he was beyond embarrassed by June seeing him in this state, the worry plainspoken on her face. He drank the soup because it smelled good and because she wanted him to, and drank the water too—hot, not cold—and it was almost like waking up in a warm shower. His mind cleared, his body relaxed. She smiled her satisfaction, then made him a cup of strong black tea and brought it to him before settling beside him on the couch.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much. Thank you, June." Neal could be convincing even when he was lying, but it was obvious to June—who could tell, either way—that his gratitude was heartfelt. She reached out and brushed the curls back from the side of his face, gently—the way your mother might—and smiled.

"You went to see a psychiatrist?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

Neal started to nod, then thought better of it and said, "Yes."

"I'm glad," she said. "I've been worried these past two weeks that you—"

Neal reached out and covered her hand with his own. "Not like that," he said gently. "A case. I was undercover."

"Oh," she said, confusion clouding her features, then, "_Oh_. Then they _didn't_—"

She stopped and pressed her lips together firmly, then smiled at him, but Neal knew a con-man smile when he saw one. "What?" he demanded. "They didn't _what_?"

June said nothing, although it was plain she wanted to, and though Neal added his puppy-dog eyes (which had _no effect at all_ on June, as he'd suspected), she had merely chuckled and waved him away. But the chuckle was at odds with the fire that he had seen—however briefly—in her eyes.

"Why don't you tell me what _did_ happen?" she said.

Before he could begin, Mozzie burst through the door. "Don't you answer your phone anymore?" he demanded.

"Don't you knock?" Neal countered, but June shushed them both and waved Mozzie over.

"Get over here, Mozzie," said June. "Neal's going to tell us what's going on."

"June's not happy," said Mozzie. It was a gross understatement. "June's _livid_!" would also have been an understatement, but when she had heard the worst, and petted him a little more, she left them to plot or plan or _do what they would_, muttering under her breath about "thick-headed FBI suits." Mozzie watched after her fondly, glad Neal was under her watchful eyes.

"I'm fine, Moz—the headache's gone." Neal didn't look at Mozzie, and Mozzie made a delicate snort but didn't call him on it.

"Well, here's the deal—I'm going to dig around a little and see if I can tell what she slipped you. Any chance of seeing the tox screen?"

Six months ago, Neal would have said yes, or at least considered it, but he shook his head almost immediately now. "No," he said, and Mozzie managed not to snort again. It was a sore point—for Neal, and between the two of them—how Neal had been increasingly cut out of Bureau life. Mozzie wondered if Neal ever regretted coming back from Cape Verde, but dared not broach the subject—that had been an _eternity_ ago, a world of time ago.

"If I go, are you going to be all right?"

"What? I'm helpless?" Neal snapped. "I made it all the way back to the FBI office by myself, drugged and feeling like I'd just been hit on the back of the head with a two-by-four. I _worked_ the rest of the day, feeling like…crap. I _think_ I can locomote around my own apartment without _hurting_ myself." Almost immediately, he regretted the outburst. There was no reason to be mad at Mozzie, no reason to drive off the friends he still had.

"I'm not worried you're going to hurt yourself," Mozzie said serenely. "I'm worried that, in your current state, you might have an unfortunate attack of honesty."

There was a real dig in there somewhere, and Neal smiled in spite of himself. "Ouch," he said. "I'll stay out of trouble, Moz. Okay?"

"Okay," said Mozzie. "I'll be back when I know something."

Mozzie's excitement about the whole thing was a little unnerving. Neal tried not to think too much about what he was planning to do—there was no point in getting cold feet, after all. Luckily for him, he had a lifetime of pushing unpleasant thoughts away, a lifetime of dealing _in the moment_ because it _might_ be the last free moment you had. He interrupted Mozzie only once, to have him retrieve three eggs, some mushrooms and a couple of hard cheeses from the fridge, because—in his unnerved state—he didn't think he could hold his gorge while there was a decayed skatefish staring up at him blearily from one of his own platters. He made a light, fluffy omelet which he ate with sourdough toast, made a cup of oolong tea and tried not to climb out of his skin with worry that he had told Summers enough to blackmail him for the rest of his life. The thought of _three_ handlers was enough to make the drudgery and monotony of prison look pretty appealing, and only the memory of Mozzie's indignation kept him from reiterating his desire to return. What had Mozzie said when he'd suggested going back to prison? _The Suit would never allow it._

Despite his best efforts, a small part of Neal's brain ran over to play with this piece of information—tossing it into the air, looking at it from various angles. That Mozzie would _still_ say that—say that after Peter et al had robbed Mozzie of his fortune _and_ his name and almost his freedom—was…_odd_. He remembered Peter's reaction when Siegel described Mozzie. In spite of himself, he felt an odd surge of relief that no one but Siegel had seen Mozzie's face, and the thought made him feel horrible and vulture-ish and soulless that he had found a reason—_any reason at all_—to be glad about Siegel's death. He remembered the look Peter had given him during that conversation, the _old_ look, the look that said, "If you _do_ what you are _not supposed to do_, I will nail you to the wall. I will put your butt back in a jail cell and you will not see Italian Roast for a long, long time." That look had sent shivers up Neal's spine—not that he was _frightened_, exactly—but that he had not been expecting it. Not really.

If Peter had become inured to him, he had certainly become accustomed to Peter, and not just to Peter himself, but to Peter's world. It was a world where people actually knew you, at least a _little_—knew you enough to know how you took your coffee or to ask your advice about ties or art exhibits. That had been weird at first, realizing that he had become an integral part of other people's lives. While he and Mozzie had friends in the business, there was always an element of danger when a friendship (of sorts) formed, broke up when the deal was concluded, and then reformed on another caper. You had to keep track of what you'd told people, what they'd told _you_, what you'd kept hidden. In truth, Neal guessed it _wasn't_ that different from the life he'd been living at the White Collar division, but it _felt_ different. And that differentness had made him careless, made him reckless.

He felt reckless now, the vial in his hand, and Mozzie's nonchalance, strangely enough, wasn't helping. Of course, if Mozzie had been worried, that wouldn't have reassured him, either. All of this second-guessing was making him irritable, and _anything_ had to be better than this smothering uncertainty. He opened the vial, poured it into his water, and drank it down before he could change his mind.

It rolled over him like a wave, disorienting but familiar and he gripped the arms of the chair with the effort of not panicking. His fingers dug into his palms, the pain grounding him while he sank deeper, deeper, _further_…. Neal landed, or at least, _plateaued_, stuck on a level where he could tread water and not sink further. This was…this was _bad_, but not _as_ bad as before. Some part of his brain recognized that he could still make comparisons, and that gave him a little comfort.

Mozzie was talking, the sound of his voice reassuring. Neal wondered how many times he had come to to the sound of Mozzie's voice, or Peter's, and thought in a fuzzy almost-panic if all of those times he'd been knocked out were finally catching up to him.

Mozzie was talking, and he fought to pay attention to what he was saying. "Did she ask you anything?"

He heard himself answer. "What does the FBI know?"

He supplied his own answer, grateful to realize he could string a question-and-answer sequence together. Moz was right—this stimulant was helping clarify things.

"What can the FBI prove?" His silence was answer enough.

Mozzie was nodding, the motion looking sort of bobble-headed to Neal, and he had to look away.

"Did _you_ ask anything?"

"Yes," Neal managed. "Why did you take the money?"

He heard her voice in his head, and spoke along with it. "For the same reason you steal—because it was there."

"—because it was there." He had said it with her, there in the office, and it had been eerie, surreal almost, to see the same understanding on Dr. Summers' face. It was eerie, an intimate moment with someone who meant him harm, and he felt that icy touch of fear and loathing on his spine but didn't say it out loud.

Mozzie's face—if Neal could have noticed—registered satisfaction. The Doctor suit was corrupt, but so what? They were _all_ corrupt, _even_…well. The sooner Neal recognized that, the sooner he admitted it, the better. If Mozzie could have seen his own face then, he might have been surprised to see disappointment written there. But Neal was talking, blurting things out without prompting.

"I'm not _reformed_," Neal burst out. "I mean, I _like_ doing the things I do. I like working with Peter. I like working with the FBI."

"That's the drugs talking," Mozzie murmured, uncertain if Neal heard him.

"But I also like working _against_ them. I _like_ doing the things I shouldn't and I don't feel _guilty_, I don't feel _remorse_. I don't feel _anything_ except—"

"Okay. Too much stimulant," Mozzie said. Later, he would think about this part of their conversation and wonder what Neal had been going to say if he hadn't interrupted.

"Yeah. Maybe _you_ should take some of the stimulant, too. It might help you remember!" Neal exclaimed.

As long as they had worked together, Mozzie had been impressed with the workings of that beautiful mind underneath all that beautiful hair. Usually, he could keep up—but not today. "Remember _what_?" he asked, not sure where they were in the conversation.

"Remember _who you are_! What are you _doing_ here, Moz? You should be out on the streets rebuilding yourself! You are _smart_, you are _resourceful_! You can do anything without a height requirement!" Neal's incredulity and scorn were plain, and Mozzie reeled from the unexpected attack.

"It isn't so easy," he half-whispered, stung by Neal's vehemence.

"Has Big Brother finally just _cornered_ you into _defeat_?" Neal sneered.

"I'm going to get a pen and write some of this down for research," Mozzie managed. He stood up and walked to the hallway purposefully, then sagged against the wall, shaken by what Neal had said. He gave himself a moment, then dug a pencil out of his pocket. He took a deep breath, put on his con face—his bland face—and started back.

"Okay," he said, forestalling another piercing comment from his best friend. "We should take it from….

But the room was empty.

_Damn_. _Damn_ and _drat_ and a few other words. Mozzie ran out the door after his truant friend.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Conflicted Interest,** Part 2_

Neal needed to get to Peter, needed to get to Peter before the weight—which had been crushing him, paralyzing him—fell back on him again and the opportunity was gone.

He had never had trouble hailing a taxi. He waved, and—like magic—a taxi surged out of the crowd and stopped at the curb. He tripped once in his enthusiasm but managed to get in and get the door mostly closed before they were pulling out into traffic. He gave the address, realizing that his voice was probably too loud, but if the driver was concerned about his passenger he gave no sign of it.

"I have to get to Peter," Neal said. "He's my handler. And my friend. We've been friends for a long time—ever since he started chasing me across Europe."

"Is that right?" asked the cabbie dryly. He was amused, but not worried about his fare's garrulousness. Sometimes, people just needed to talk—especially in a big city like New York, where no one knows anyone and anything can happen.

"Yes!" Neal said emphatically. "I mean, at first, I thought he was out to _get_ me, you know, out to put an end to all of my…stuff." Even in his drugged state, Neal's natural evasiveness made him veer off when talking to a total stranger, but the cabbie didn't seem to mind. "But then—when he _did_ catch me—I think he kind of _liked_ me, you know? I already liked him—he was a good arch enemy."

The cabbie looked at Neal in the mirror, his eyebrows going up a fraction of an inch in surprise. "Arch enemy, huh?" he said. He snorted. "You Superman, or something?"

"No," said Neal instantly, "but once I thought I was going to be Superman. It didn't work out." Trick or treating that year had been a disappointment, but just one in a long line of disappointed expectations from his childhood.

"So," the man asked drolly, "you can fly?" He was enjoying this more than he would have believed. The man didn't _seem_ crazy—just simple, maybe—and a little hyper. And he had flashed money at him to begin with, so he wasn't really worried about being stiffed.

"No." This rather sadly, then Neal brightened. "But I once jumped off a penthouse with a parachute and landed—_boop_—just like _that_ on the sidewalk."

"A parachute, huh?"

"Yep. And Peter didn't even see me."

"Peter your arch enemy? Was Peter chasing you then?" the man asked. He was going to have a really good story to tell when he got home tonight. While Gladys spooned up pork and potatoes on a plate, he'd tell her about his day, about this sort of crazy Greek god of a fare who thought he could fly and had an arch enemy.

"Yes. Well, yes, Peter, but he wasn't my arch enemy anymore. He was my friend." The man in the back of the cab fell silent for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was sad. "He was mad at me, though. He was my friend, but he was really mad at me."

"Sometimes it happens like that," said the man, feeling expansive. "Sometimes your best friend can be a real jerk."

"Burke the jerk," said the man in the back of the cab, then he laughed. He sobered almost instantly, however, and became pensive again. The day was cool, but he looked like he was sweating, and he seemed to be in a constant state of restlessness, moving around on the back seat as though it were too hot to settle. "He's mad at me now, too," Neal said.

"What's he mad at you for?" asked the driver. "What'd you do?"

"I—I did a lot of things," Neal said, his voice rising and speeding up at the same time. "I…I tried to make up for what happened with my father, but it didn't work. Well, it did, but not the way I wanted. I wanted him to come and clear Peter, tell what he did, but he wouldn't, and so I had to…um…and then, even though it _worked_ and Peter got out, he was mad at me. I don't understand_ why_…he just _is_." The tone became plaintive, and the man hugged himself, struggling to sit still. "He's mad at me because I'm…I'm a criminal."

"Is that so? You don't look like a criminal to me." _Truth was, you couldn't tell by looking, and 30 years of driving a cab in New York will teach you __**that**__ if nothing else, but the man seemed sad and upset, and what harm w__as there, really, in being a friendly face?_

"I don't?" The smile that lit up the younger man's face was brilliant, his expression hopeful. "I don't _mean_ to be a criminal. I just…it's just…sometimes I do things….but…but maybe if I tell Peter everything, tell him what really _happened_, then we can be friends again, and he won't try to send me away."

They were nearing the address, and the cabbie pulled over and stopped, looking at the neat house on the tidy street. It was a definite step down from the neighborhood he'd picked his rider up in, but a nice, pleasant neighborhood all the same. As emphatic as the man had been about his arch-enemy, it seemed doubtful that he was actually walking into harm's way. Before he had even come to a complete stop, the man was trying to get out of the car, a wad of cash fluttering over the front seat.

"Here—here, thank you, thank you so much," said the younger man. Manners always matter. He all but _ran_ up to the house and knocked on the door.

Although he wouldn't have owned it, the taxi driver watched to make sure that, when the door opened, the fellow was welcomed inside. He _was_, and some small, un-cynical part of his brain was glad, was relieved. He hated the thought that, if the man had to go to his arch enemy for help, he might be turned away, but it looked like he was welcomed after all. He smiled and pulled into traffic. Gladys was sure going to like this story.

He didn't think he'd been knocking that long, but he couldn't be sure. The door opened abruptly and there was Peter—_there was Peter_!—and he was so glad, _so __**glad**_ to see him. Peter looked surprised but not mad, and Neal came into the Burke's home, assuming he would be welcome. He had always been welcome before, and later—remembering that—gave him both pleasure and pain at the thought. Peter fell back, allowing Neal into his living room with a strange mixture of pleasure and trepidation.

Neal had not been in his house since he'd gotten out of prison, and while he'd not allowed himself to examine that thought too closely, the truth of it was hitting him now. One of the last times Neal had been in his house was when he had been here with Elizabeth, when she had said… He took a deep breath and pushed the thought away before it smothered him.

Peter watched the play of emotions chasing over Neal's face. Neal was talking a mile a minute, obviously agitated about something. He had made to hug Elizabeth, but she had shied from him. Later, Peter would remember that exchange and wonder if that had been because of Neal's boisterous state or some other reason, but at the moment he was too focused on figuring out what was happening to do more than note it.

Neal came in and plopped down on the couch. Warily, Peter sat opposite him, trying to figure out what Neal was about. What Neal was _about_ was _about three sheets to the wind_, and Peter thought at first that Neal was drunk. With a pang of chagrin, Peter thought that perhaps the day's events had been more than traumatizing than Neal had let on. Yes, Neal had been agitated and distressed, but all of _his_ conversation had been couched around the _case_, around the effect his _cover_ being blown would have on Griffith's prosecution. After Neal had left, Jenkins had asked him, rather casually, how Neal was doing. Neal's unusual demeanor must have elicited curiosity in the rest of the staff. Caught off guard washing out his coffee mug, Peter realized _he really did not know_. Neal had always been a master of redirection. Peter had not challenged him when all of his chatter and worries had been about the case, but he realized now how artfully his C.I. had danced around the topic. Their previous night's conversation flashed in his head. "I'm a wall," Neal had said, smirking. There had been a time when Peter could scale that wall—with _effort_, true—but scale it nonetheless, and compel the truth from his CI and friend, but that seemed like a long, long time ago.

Looking at Neal sitting awkwardly on his couch, the FBI's newest ASAC realized how much had changed. What had Neal said as he'd come through the door? "I just came to get a few things off my chest." _Good_, thought Peter. Maybe they both could.

Neal was talking, almost as though the words were being driven out of him by force. Peter had tried to tune in to what he was saying, trying to gather the disparate threads of conversation and weave them into some coherent whole.

"—was in 7th grade. I didn't _know_ any better! I saw the money sticking out of her purse and—_boop_—mine! It was the same thing with the Greco self-portrait in Belize—I mean, it wasn't sticking out of a purse, more like a highly secured wing of the Central American Antiquities Center. Am I talking too much?"

_You think_? El thought. She was leaning on her husband's broad back and murmured, instead, "Is he _okay_?"

"I have no idea." Peter sounded tense and halfway miserable, and El realized that he was scared—terrified, maybe—that Neal had come here, as he had so often before, to make some problematic revelation which was going to take an inordinate amount of effort to resolve. On top of his new responsibilities at work, the thought must have been daunting. Plus, Neal looked wired and almost…well, maybe a little _emotional_, and Peter was so terribly bad at emotional outbursts. He was sweet and patient and tender and kind, but the thought of anyone falling, weeping, into his arms was usually enough to send Peter running.

Neal had reacted to the tone of Peter's voice much the way Satchmo did, withdrawing into himself a little. He seemed to try to get himself under control.

"I am conducting an experiment," Neal said carefully. "I…am trying to remember what I said to Summers when I was under. It's _hot_ in here."

Neal did look hot. He looked like he was running a marathon, face flushed, skin moist.

He hugged their couch pillow tightly, struggling to maintain even the modicum of composure he had.

"What did you _do_?" Peter asked. He did _not_ like where this was going.

"I…talked to Mozzie, and he gave me a solution and…I _drank_ that solution." Neal's voice was careful, pedantic, as though trying very hard to explain something complicated.

"I don't understand," said El. Her sympathy was aroused, but she didn't know quite what was wrong. Neal seemed so uncomfortable, and she tried not to think too much about why that might be so. But Peter seemed to understand what had happened.

"He _drugged_ himself in some ridiculous experiment to try to recreate what he said to the psychiatrist," Peter said. The exasperation in his voice was thick, and El saw Neal cringe a little. The comparison to Satchmo when he had been a _bad dog_ was impossible not to see. She did not know what to do, but she offered the first thing she could think of.

"Are you hungry?"

"I'm _actually_ _not_ hungry right now, but if you have any of those fantastic game hens that you make, maybe later. Oh, but no meatloaf. I'm not a fan."

El tried not to let her surprise and disappointment show. They had made it once when Neal had shown up unexpectedly around suppertime. She had thought meatloaf would be a comfort meal—homey food—but it seemed she'd miscalculated. She did have game hens in the freezer, but they were frozen solid, and no use at all in the present circumstances. She had some mushrooms and onions and some small flank steaks that might be good…. Peter's voice cut through her reverie.

"Honey—could you excuse us?"

"Um, yeah," said El distractedly, thinking menus and ingredients. She disappeared into the kitchen.

Peter sat and looked at Neal, at his miserable expression and hunched body. While in prison, he'd worried almost obsessively about what might happen to Neal if he didn't get out. His participation in Neal's misguided attempts to help clear his father's name—both the legal and the illegal things he'd done to help Neal—had left his C.I. in a precarious state. Although Neal's deal was—technically—with the FBI, and not with Peter, it was widely acknowledged that, aside from Peter, few people could keep track of Neal—or keep up with him. Including—apparently—Siegel.

Seeing Neal clutching one of his sofa cushions and looking lost reminded Peter that there was more than _one_ mystery to be solved. Ever since Siegel had died—_no_.

No. That wasn't right. Before _that_, even—before Siegel had even arrived, things had been strained between them. Peter started to backtrack the thought, trying to see what he might have been unwilling to see before, but his mind kept lurching off side trails, falling into what-ifs and ditches of inconsistency. He blinked, clearing his head, and went back to the beginning.

In jail, things had been…well, awful. Prison had been awful and claustrophobic and miserable, but things between him and Neal at that point had been, well…. Peter thought hard, looking at his memories closely. When he'd been in prison, things between him and Neal had been _good_. Neal had been beating himself up pretty badly over what had happened, and Peter had been at pains to remind Neal that he had been acting under _his own_ power, of _his own_ volition. While he _hadn't_ been responsible for Pratt's death, he _had_ been responsible for wearing the tracking anklet, for misleading the FBI. Still, guilt had sat on Neal like a millstone and nothing Peter had said or done while they had spoken seemed to lift the weight. He'd known that Neal was plotting and planning, looking for some way to circumvent the system, but he'd done his best—done his _damnedest_—to remind Neal that justice would prevail, that truth would out in the end (if you lasted long enough). Still, of all the things he'd expected Neal to be working on—jailbreaks, dropping down from a skylight into his prison cell (his prison cell had _certainly_ not had a skylight), bribing the guards or joining him so they could fight their way out in a hailstorm of homemade weapons and bullets, nothing—_nothing_—had prepared him for what Neal had actually done for him.

If James was safe, was gone, but Neal had gotten to him, convinced him _somehow_ to make that tape, then Neal had probably thrown away any chance he might have had of having a relationship with his father. By admitting what he'd done, James had become a fugitive, and would no doubt spend the rest of his life on the run, never able to have a whole life. _How ironic and sad_, Peter thought, _to have found his father after all these years only to lose him to circumstances. _True, James had hardly been the father Neal had hoped for, and discovering his guilt after all this time—even though he'd served his time—had been a blow. Knowing his father had killed—again—had been devastating, but it was particularly hard to take since Neal had put him in the position of committing the act. Peter's own misery at his situation was mitigated by the realization of what Neal must be going through. It had made it easier to be there, to be strong and steady and offer comfort out of his own uncertainty when he knew that Neal must be hanging onto his own certainty by a slender thread.

When they had played James' statement in court, he'd been astonished, but his relief and admiration had been tinged—however slightly—by realizing what it must have cost Neal to get this confession from his father. Thinking about it now, with Neal sitting vulnerable and upset on his couch, gave Peter more than a moment's pause.

If things had been good after prison—and he would not soon forget Neal's studied nonchalance as he came back into the office, the sight of him sitting, feet up on the desk in Peter's office and throwing that damned rubber-band ball—then where _had_ they begun to go wrong? He thought back to his own reactions upon returning—which had still been stiff and awkward and not-quite-normal—and wondered if he had made enough over Neal's sacrifice, if he had done enough to show his appreciation. He _had_ told Neal how proud he was, had praised his self-restraint in the face of temptation. Temptation had always been Neal's catnip, he realized, and self-restraint had hardly been his strong suit, but he had done things right—had gone through appropriate—if difficult—channels to help bring Peter home. In spite of himself, of the worry that was eating at him, Peter took a moment to feel proud of Neal, of the growth he'd seen in the younger man. True, Neal might never be a boy scout….

Speaking of boy scouts….Siegel. Bringing in Siegel had been a good idea. It _had_ been. Once he'd taken on the new responsibilities of an ASAC, there wouldn't be enough time to ride herd on Neal. If Neal didn't have a strong hand, he was bound to get into trouble, and if he got into trouble…well, he didn't know how much largesse was still on Neal's account. There had been no formal acknowledgment of Neal's role in helping to free Peter—in fact, even _Neal_ had never owned convincing his dad to confess—but the Bureau had to know, _had_ to know, that it wouldn't have happened without some sort of input from James' son. Peter's irritation spiked—sometimes the Bureau could be so damned thick-skinned! Would it have _killed_ them to acknowledge Neal's usefulness, the way he'd worked tirelessly and on a very short leash while Peter was imprisoned? _Of course it would_, he thought bitterly. They were still probably licking their wounds from Calloway, smarting with embarrassment at having a corrupt senator's puppet in charge of an investigation that implicated said senator.

So Siegel _had_ been the right answer. With Peter preoccupied with new duties, Neal needed a new partner, a new handler, and Peter had sifted through a number of possibilities. None of them had even come close to matching Siegel's gifts, and it had been easy to decide, easy to pick the bright young agent to come and work with his bright young C.I. He _hadn't_ known about Siegel's former C.I. He supposed he had assumed that the relationship had simply ended with Siegel's departure, and had gone on seamlessly with another agent after he left, much like he'd envisioned Neal's relationship to _him_ ending and going on with another…with Siegel. He _hadn't_ known, _hadn't_ bothered to find out, and he wondered worriedly what _else_ he might have missed. Had he really be _that much_ off his game? One thing he _hadn't_ missed was the cooling change in his relationship to Neal, the way Neal had put on his bland, unreadable, con-man face once he'd told him about the changes, about…wait. _Wait._ Neal _hadn't_ cooled off when he'd shared his news about the promotion, about the possibility of going to DC. Neal had been congratulatory, had toasted his good news. Looking back, Peter realized that Neal's intervention with his Father had made his own good news possible, and tried to think if he had properly acknowledged that. There were so many damn layers, so many things between them besides secrets—bonds of trust, debts of gratitude, scores they meant to even against the world at each others side. Afterward, they'd sat at Neal's table and shared a drink and a little awkward conversation. He had at least managed, _finally_, to tell Neal he was proud of him, to acknowledge the price of his freedom. He'd thought things had been okay when he'd left, but the truth was he didn't have any real idea where things had stood between them after that. Or how they stood _now_.

It hadn't gotten easier the following day. In fact, the entire day had been…bad. _Strange_ and _bad_ from the get-go and it hadn't gotten better. He'd thought the first case back would settle things in. He'd even thought that Neal would _like_ a gold coin heist, that the romanticism of the crime might ignite some interest on his C.I.'s part, but it had not proven so. Neal had seemed distracted and had had trouble meeting his eyes on more than one occasion and had seemed touchy and distracted. He'd been helpful enough, but not really engaged, and when he'd turned at the Fire Station, hoping to josh Neal a little about the destruction of his suit coat he'd been…nowhere. In fact, he'd not really been sure _when_ Neal had left his side, so had his suspicions about his involvement in the coin heist even been valid? The coins _had_ gone missing, they _had_ been tracked to the fire station and they _had_ disappeared, but _when_ it was impossible to say for sure. At the time, his Spidey sense had told him that Neal was somehow involved in the theft, but there had been nothing concrete to tie Neal to the crime. Was it possible Neal _wasn't_ involved, but knew who was?

Mozzie! Damn it, of _course_, Mozzie. He liked the man—more or less—but he could not stop seeing him as a devil on Neal's shoulder, whispering in his ear, enticing him back into a life he shouldn't return to—a life Neal shouldn't _want_ to return to. He wondered if Mozzie _were_ involved. It was possible. It was _likely_, even, although gold coins were actually more Neal's thing. He sometimes wished Mozzie hadn't returned from Cape Verde. It occurred to him to wonder if he should have tried to bring _Neal_ back from Cape Verde. At the time, it had seemed like the right thing, the _exact_ right thing, and Neal had been willing—_more_ than willing—to return. Within hours, they had fallen back into their old ways right enough, even with him incarcerated in the evidence warehouse doing scut work. The image of Neal arriving every day—lunch in hand—to keep him from going stir crazy sprang to mind. They had been _friendly_ then, not just friends, and he realized that everything—_everything_—had been different then. And everything—_everything_—had changed _now_.

_**Damn**__ it, I'm __**trying**__ to do the __**right thing**__—trying to do what's __**best**__ for Neal_, Peter told himself. It was a testament to his honesty that he even failed at lying to himself. Shame washed over him, coloring everything. He had _wanted what he wanted_, and convinced himself that it was the right thing, the _best_ thing. When he'd got out of prison, he would have said he only wanted to come home, to go back to the way things had been. But things had _not been_ the way they _had been_—they had been quite different, and he—himself—had been different, altered by his stay in prison. He had come out expecting to have to fight for his place, and had been offered a higher place on the food chain instead, a place he'd never thought he wanted. And when he had _dared_ to want it, _that _had changed everything.

Fear had touched his relationship with Neal, fear that had nothing to do with protecting Neal from harm, or himself from being played or Elizabeth from becoming a target. Peter had become afraid that his judgment was not solid, was not reliable any longer. There were so many decisions he had made during the past six months that he didn't know if he would make again, so many things he knew now—things he had put in motion himself—that he wished he did not know. Neal had said once—in anger—that he had been at fault in the death of Ellen, in the disappearance of Sam. Now, on top of everything else, another agent was dead—young, idealistic, impossibly straight-arrow David Siegel. Because _he_ had not been sure of his own judgment, another agent was dead. And though he felt himself responsible, felt himself at fault—he still didn't know _why_. He _needed_ to know _why_.

The attention spent on Dave Siegel's life—brief though it had been—was exhaustive. Peter had supervised the turning over of so many stones he could have built a fortress, but the only fortress erected seemed to have been between him and Neal. Bringing Siegel in _had_ been the right thing, the hard thing, but for all the good it might have done (_Had_ it done any good?), it had done its share of damage. He and Neal were—in the words of Kermit the Frog—friendly-like, but not really friendly anymore. They talked and joked and worked in close proximity, filling in the gaps with charm and politeness, but the gaps were still there, still evident, still painful. Peter had viewed this as a temporary problem—Neal had been angry with him before, annoyed at him eternally, but they had still managed to find a place in the middle where they respected each other and worked well together. They both had sharp wits and sharp edges, but their skills were complementary, and together they had packed a pretty toothsome bite. Making enemies together had been another bond, of sorts, but Peter was realizing for the first time that they had created an ever-widening circle of distrust in both his peers _and_ Neal's. In _his_ work, distance had helped—Big, Bad Peter Burke was back—but in Neal's…well, _whatever_ you called what Neal did when he was doing things he shouldn't, it had probably served to cool some of his contacts. Still, Neal had not complained. Even when they had gone after Little Star, which Neal had _obviously_ known _something_ about, Neal had given every evidence of cooperation. Every evidence….

Peter had known Neal too long, knew how he could lay a transparent lie over a truth so artfully that you didn't realize it until too late, if at all. But if Neal's contacts had shrunk, Peter's had widened, his reach had extended. They had joked about it the other day, at least, _he_ had joked, but he had noticed then, as before, that there was a bruised look about Neal's expression, a wariness that had once been playful and now seemed hurt and sometimes sullen. To the best of his knowledge, Neal _still_ didn't know about Siegel's former C.I. He felt again the thrill of guilt and fear he'd felt when he'd first learned himself. Peter remembered the way Neal had tried to pump him for information about his new handler—_not_ expertly, _not _cleverly, with the usual Caffrey charm, but awkwardly, nervously. He realized—_again_—that Neal had been more than nervous about the change, more than unhappy. El had seemed to know that—why the hell hadn't _he_? Had he really been so blind, so consumed with ambition that he'd failed to notice all of this when it happened? _Why_, then, were these points so obvious to him in retrospect. Peter felt his cheeks flame. It _was_ hot in here, but not because of the temperature. Maybe it _wasn't_ too late to fix things—to set things back on an even keel. Maybe he could find out what had happened between Neal and Siegel, what had happened that had prevented their partnership from blooming as he'd expected.

Neal looked dazed and unsettled, vulnerable, and Peter was forcibly reminded of another time, a time when Neal had acted out of good intentions but impetuously. He'd ended up dosed with truth serum and told Peter not just that he trusted him, but that he trusted _only_ him. The thought made Peter's solar plexus throb, a mixture of pleasure and surprise and guilt. He doubted Neal would say that _now_, and he hardly blamed…_hold on_. _Truth_ serum? Neal hadn't been dosed with truth serum _this_ time, just something that made him more…suggestible...oh. _Oh! _No. No, he...he _couldn't_. _No no no!_ Peter's mind ran ahead and he flinched and forced his brain away from the thought, but it returned almost instantly. Suggestible…Neal was under the influence of something that made him _suggestible_.

The words were out almost before he could stop them.

"Neal—do you know what happened to Siegel?"

Neal's look was wild, betrayed. He stared at Peter, mouth gaping, and his hands tightened convulsively on the pillow.

Halfway hating himself, Peter persisted. It was too late to un-say, to un-ask. Might as well be in for a sheep as in for a lamb.

"You're not answering my question. Siegel?" He forbade himself from looking behind him toward the kitchen, not at all sure what El would think of him now. He had been FBI before they met, and she had embraced that part of him as surely as she embraced the rest of him—not grudgingly, or fearfully—but wholeheartedly. She thought him a _good_ man, a good _agent_, but there were times when Peter wondered if it were always possible to be both at the same time. He had never tried to leave work at the office—it was impossible for him, and El knew that. But he had tried not to show her the parts of his job, the parts of _himself_, that might repel her. There had been a couple of times—after Neal ran, and again after he had made the decision that he had to go after him—that her ferocity had surprised him. She had proven her mettle more than once—both in the field and waiting in paralyzing anxiety—but he would not like her to see him now, pressing Neal for things he _needed to know _when Neal was vulnerable. But he _did_ need answers—needed them _desperately_—and if this was the only way—

"I don't know…what happened and—" Neal looked desperate and miserable, on the edge of…something, and Peter wanted to _shout_, to _shake_ him, to _make him fall off that edge_ because he was sure, was _positive_ that he could catch Neal—again—if he fell. But Neal's face said otherwise, said he would not, _could_ not trust Peter to break his fall. Exasperated, Peter tried again. "What aren't you _telling_ me, Neal?"

Neal opened his mouth—


	3. Chapter 3

_**Conflicted Interest, **Part 3_

"For the love of Thoreau, you can't just wander off into the woods like that," Mozzie cried, bursting through the door.

_Usually_, thought Mozzie, _**I**__ look guilty and__ the__** Suit**__ looks worried._ It was weird to see _his own_ expression on _Peter's_ face, and feel Peter's wary expression on his own. As if aware of the scrutiny, Peter's guilty expression changed almost instantly, became more businesslike, less furtive. Mozzie took a quick inhale, startled by the transformation. _What had the Suit been up to? What had he already asked?_ He blinked. Peter was asking _him_ something.

"We tried something and it worked," Mozzie said shortly, and hurried to explain.

Things got more normal when they agreed on a plan of action—that is, as normal as things ever felt when he was consorting with the Dark Side. But Peter seemed as eager as _he_ had been to sweep everything under the carpet—motives, misgivings, illegally administered pharmaceuticals…. The important thing was that Neal was still lucid, still able to do what he needed to do and, frankly, the suit was much better at this tell-me-what-I-want-to-know stuff than he'd _ever_ be. Speaking of, Mozzie wondered again what Peter had been asking Neal when he'd come in, but whatever it was, he'd seemed pretty hot to get off _that_ topic and on to what Neal might have said to the shrink.

"Neal—take a deep breath. Close your eyes and just try to remember where you left off."

Tense as he was, Neal seemed more relaxed than he had when he'd been when Mozzie had first arrived. The little man stole a glance at Peter, then Neal, and saw that Neal was looking at Peter intently, his blue eyes fixed on Peter as though there was something there he wanted, something there he needed to see.

"Summers asked me what the FBI knew," Neal said. He was fading, the edge already worn away, and Mozzie wondered how long they'd actually have before Neal slid into insensibility.

"Everything," Neal intoned solemnly, obviously echoing what he'd confessed to Summers.

"What can they prove?"

Neal squirmed, fighting against telling her the truth. Peter's breath caught at the sight of his distress and he moved on.

"What did she ask next?"

"Griffith—will they prosecute?"

"Soon."

"Good—that's good," Peter said. Neal bloomed under this praise, but the strain of staying focused and awake was taking its toll. Neal managed to give them the number Summers had dialed, but the effort drained him.

_Yes_, thought Mozzie. _There was definitely the edge of a slur in Neal's voice. As solicitous as Peter seemed to be, he did not much like the idea of having Neal in this vulnerable, __**truthful**__ state while under the roof of an FBI…oh. Oh!_ He shot Peter a suspicious look—an _admiring _ look, but Peter was watching Neal, and the expression on his face was...Mozzie didn't know _what_ to call it, and the fact that he didn't know was distressing in itself.

When he'd found out Neal had gotten out of prison—and what a cryptic message _that_ had been—he'd been overcome with curiosity about what FBI Agent Peter Burke was really like. He had long disapproved of Neal's fascination with the Suit, but that was before he'd met him himself, in person. He was...different—_not_ what he'd expected. Disliking Peter in the abstract had been easy—he was a Suit, a government shill, a minion of Evil. Disliking him in person had been impossible, but only _just_—although for Mozzie, that was saying something.

Neal had long been interested in the agent who'd pursued him with more insight and vigor than anyone else had ever shown. Mozzie knew Neal had admired Burke the Jerk—although he'd actually stopped referring to the FBI agent by that moniker some months earlier. Neal had also pulled off more than one heist openly wondering whether or not Peter Burke would be there to stop him, or give chase or to slap the cuffs on him in triumph. It had not deterred Neal in the least. In fact, his interest in whether or not _Peter_ was watching his every caper had begun to rival his interest in whether or not _Kate_ was watching him. While he had never been a particular fan of Kate—too...suggestible for his tastes—he was even more alarmed by his friend's blatant taunting of someone who could easily put him away. And yet...and yet...Neal had seemed remarkable unafraid.

While it was true Neal rarely _showed_ fear, that didn't mean he was immune from it. He either used the fear as fuel—terror could be a great motivator, _and_ a great running coach—or clamped down on the expression of it Mozzie had seen it too often not to recognize it, and he had seen Neal under some extreme circumstances. There had been one bullet which had deafened _him_ for the better part of an afternoon, and had all but shaved off one of the un-tamable curls Neal refused to keep short, and Neal had hardly flinched until it was over, and they were free, were burning rubber and—finally-laughing.. But he'd seen Neal moving closer and closer to the idea of being caught by Burke—and Neal had not flinched from that, either.

"You're playing with fire," Moz had complained.

"Says the one who _actually_ plays with fire," Neal had returned, then grinned at him.

"Neal, I'm serious—this Suit means business. He is dreaming about putting you away for a couple of lifetimes."

But Neal had been sanguine, and unafraid. Mozzie had tried to convince himself that this was a passing fancy, a hobby to take his mind off missing Kate, but while he was a inveterate liar, he could not convince himself.

And then it had happened, as Neal had seemed to know it would. Captivity had been, well, rotten—worse than awful—but Neal had faced it with that same reckless con man smile that revealed nothing. _That_ had not surprised Mozzie, but the Suit—the Suit, well, he had been _full_ of surprises. The trial had been a chess game, played in three dimensions—if not four—and Neal had not seemed surprised, or even especially dismayed at the outcome. Not that Mozzie had actually _gone_ to the trial, but he had had eyes and ears nonetheless, watchful and vigilant.

And he'd had eyes and ears on the inside, as well. He knew how to spread around what needed spreading—honey or manure—and he had done what he could. He had thought it was enough, was good, but then-catastrophe. Catastrophe in the form of woman—as if it needed saying—and Neal had done what he'd always done around women: lost all sense of reason, all sense of the end game. And _then_ he'd done what he'd always done best of all: he'd run—but not far.

Kate was gone, a ghost, but Peter had still been there—no ghost, no specter. But instead of cowering or playing it cool, Neal had all but run into his net, flung himself into the lion's den. He had asked Neal more than once if he had planned what happened next, had thought about the anklet before he'd run the first time, but he had never gotten a satisfactory answer. He been persistent, but when evasion and charm hadn't worked, Neal had simply pretended deafness, his face set in stony silence. Mozzie had eventually consigned that query to things he would ask Neal the next time they were about to die, or injected with—oh. _Oh!_ But before he could ask, Peter was asking _him_ something again, and by they time he turned back to Neal, Neal was out like a light. Peter dialed the number Neal had given them.

Mozzie moved to take Neal with him, feeling both protective and possessive, but Peter got up and put a blanket over him. The gesture was so unconsciously parental that Mozzie caught his breath. You had to _watch_ yourself around the Suit—he could lull you into a false sense of security without even seeming to try.

Peter finished his phone call, and came and stood next to Mozzie awkwardly. They had not had much interaction in a while, and practically no _friendly_ interaction, and that distance made itself felt.

"He looks so harmless when he's sleeping," Mozzie said dryly, to cover his momentary lapse in suspicion.

"Looks can be deceiving," Peter had said, but not unkindly. His mouth was curved into a wry smile.

"_Tell_ me about it," said Mozzie. "Take the Washington Monument, for example. Did you know—"

"Mozzie...please. My head is...I can't do this right now. I need to—I have to go check on a couple of things." He reached out to touch Mozzie's arm, then seemed to remember that Mozzie didn't like to be touched and stopped just short. "El's in the kitchen. Why don't you go and get a-"

"Thank the gods. I could use a glass of wine."

:"I was going to say 'cup of tea' but, sure. I know El will be glad to see you. She's, um, missed you." Peter turned away, so he didn't see Mozzie's eyebrows climbing toward heaven.

_Good grief_, Mozzie thought, horrified. _The man was insidious_. But he went to see El anyway.

There was a sensation of falling, of swimming, maybe, drowning, suffocating. Neal fought it,twisting away. He flung his arm out, grasping for something to hold onto—and somebody grabbed his hand. The shock of it made him still, but his heart was racing, and he took a deep breath before opening his eyes.

"Hey, steady there," said Peter. Neal heard a rustle behind him and looked up—_up_?-over the..._where_ was he? Oh. The couch. He looked up over the back of the couch and saw Elizabeth looking down at him, smiling but concerned. Oh...the couch at _Peter and Elizabeth's_ house.

"Neal. Hi."

"Hi." His voice sounded like he'd swallowed sandpaper, and his throat felt even worse. Instinctively, without prompting, El handed him a glass of water with a bendy straw and he sipped it until he had drunk it all down. That was _so much better_ the relief was almost a physical pain. Slowly, Neal sat up, and everything came roiling over him, swamping him with sensation, drowning him with images and feelings and-

El's hands were on his shoulders, helping him sit up straight, and he felt more than heard Peter stand and walk closer. Peter's hand—the hand that had caught _his_ hand—closed on the back of his neck, warm and solid and comforting. Neal had been chilly, but heat radiated out from that firm hand on his neck and his desire to shiver abated.

"Take it easy, Neal. You've been out quite a while."

Neal looked toward the window, which was dark and glanced instinctively for his watch before he remembered he hadn't worn one. "What time?" he asked, and his voice _now _sounded like he'd only _chewed_ sandpaper, without swallowing it.

"It's after eleven," El said.

"_What?_ How did—why didn't you..."

He trailed off. Elizabeth's expression was sympathetic, but Peter's face was like thunder, the threat of lightning imminent. .Neal swallowed and said nothing, but his cheeks felt flushed.

"How many fingers am I holding up?" Peter demanded, hands fisted on his hips.

Neal glared at him. "Not funny," he snapped. "You're not _holding_ any up."

"Well, he's conscious at least," said El. "Mozzie _said_ he'd probably sleep it off."

Mozzie—Mozzie _had_ been here, _hadn't_ he? "Is Mozzie here?"

"No. He was, but I sent him home. He wanted to carry you home with him, but I talked him out of it."

A short conversation, Neal was sure. They'd been through a lot together, and he always knew that—if push came to shove—Mozzie would at least _try_ to carry him out on his back, but the _trying_ and the _doing_ were not quite the same thing. In spite of everything, Neal smiled, but the smile faded quickly when he looked back up at Peter's face..

Peter's arms were crossed across his chest, and he was rocking a little on his heels. His expression was hard to read, but easy to interpret. Neal tried to look meek and unobtrusive, plucking at the sofa pillow.

"Well, thanks to you, we got Jacoby," Peter said. "He went after Griffith and his little boy."

Neal looked up, his mouth falling open. "Did he—are they—?"

"They're fine. We got there in time. Jacoby's in jail, Griffith and his son were a little shaken up, but otherwise okay."

Neal wanted to ask something, but he couldn't seem to make himself. His misery must have been evident, for Peter stopped looming and sat down beside him. His voice was gruff, but more gentle than it had been. "What?" he said. "Out with it."

"I...you said, 'thanks to me.'"

"I did."

Neal waited, but Peter wasn't volunteering anything. "I—what did I _say_?" He tried to sound light-hearted and nonchalant, but his heart was pounding and he couldn't stop holding his breath. If he'd said too much, if Peter _knew_...!

The anxiety in Neal's face betrayed him, but Peter couldn't bring himself to pounce on it now. He didn't know _what_ Neal was hiding, but he now knew for certain he was hiding _something_.

Peter's expression shifted, and if Neal had been on top of his game, he'd have recognized _relief_ as well as triumph on his handler's face, but he still wasn't up to snuff. Peter heaved a silent sigh and counted himself lucky.

"You recounted your conversation with Dr. Summers," Peter said. "At least, you recounted the part of it that you had with her when you were drugged."

Neal hauled his con man smile out of mothballs, or dreamland, or wherever it had been and pasted it on. "Did I say anything juicy?" he asked, eyes twinkling with what could almost pass for merriment. _Almost_.

"No," said Peter. "But you were able to remember all seven digits of the phone number she dialed. If you hadn't..." Peter stopped, cleared his throat, remembering the look on Griffith's face when he grabbed his son to his chest and held him.

"If I hadn't...?"

"If you_ hadn't_, then it wouldn't have been such a happy ending."

"Griffith is...okay?"

"He's okay."

"And his son?"

"Yeah. Both okay." Peter slapped him gently on the back. "You," he said, "are probably _not-at-all_ okay, but hit the hay and we'll see how things look in the morning."

"Oh. Oh—no, I'm fine. I'll just call a-"

"Bed. Guest bedroom. _Now_," Peter said, and his hands were back on his hips. Neal didn't have the courage or the energy to cross him.

"I didn't bring a toothbrush," he whined.

"I put a spare on your bed," said El. "And a pair of Peter's pajamas."

Under normal circumstances, Neal would have made some sort of crack about Peter's pajamas, but this was not normal circumstances and he swallowed his smart remark.

"Thank you," he managed, and stood up. For a minute, the room dipped and swayed, but Peter's hand was on the small of his back, steadying him, propelling him toward the stairs.

"Go. Sleep this off, because tomorrow, _we_ are going to have words about _you_ and _Mozzie_ and untested pharmaceuticals."

"Okay." Neal was too tired to even try to hide the weariness in his voice.

"And Neal?"

Neal turned, fearing the worst, and tried not to cringe.

Peter's voice was suddenly gentle. "Good work. A father and son are safe at home tonight because of you and your fool-headed scheme."

"Thanks," Neal managed, the images swimming in his brain. Him and Pete...him and James...Peter and James...Peter and El and Peter and him and... It was too much to process, so he quit trying and simply trudged up the stairs to fall face first, blissfully, into slumber.

It is hard to feel natty in yesterday's clothes, but Neal did the best he could with what there was, accepting the disposable razor and the towels laid outside his door with gratefulness. He came down the stairs looking far less scruffy than he felt, faking casualness, but actually nervous about joining the Burkes at their breakfast table. He had not been here since Peter was released from prison, not since...

Peter's release had been cause for rejoicing, but not celebrating, and there had been no "Welcome Home" party to mark the occasion. Before then, he'd felt welcome to walk in this door almost any time, welcome to come with help or _for_ help, but he had not been over this threshold, into this sanctuary, since, well, since his last conversation with El, the one where she'd said... Though he had glossed it over at the time, mindful of her feelings, the memory of that conversation was like an open wound. Dr. Summers had said that he was afraid of appearing vulnerable, implied he feared being deemed unworthy of affection or attention. He had not liked her comment, had argued with her, but _her_ words on top of _El_'s had struck pretty deep.

While he harbored no love for Dr. Summers, he could hardly blame El, could he? He'd lived a remarkably self-interested life. It was understandable that, in her grief and fear over what might happen to Peter, she had lashed out at him, had said things she didn't really mean. But Neal was a student of the world, and of people, and it was equally likely—_more_ likely, even—that she might have said exactly what she _did_ mean, and had only been too polite to say before. These thoughts and the nagging worry about what he might have said to Summers, to Peter, what he owed Hagan and what had happened to Siegel churned in his gut, and despite a system ravenous for sustenance, the thought of food didn't beckon.

But when he peeked around the corner of the stairs, El was just bringing over a rasher of bacon, and there was fresh melon as well as Suger-O's and coffee. When she looked up and smiled at him—a genuine smile, warm and untainted by sympathy—he smiled back and felt some of his tension leak away. Seeing El's expression, Peter turned in his chair and Neal's calm surface trembled.

"Look who's back in the land of the lucid," Peter said. Compared to Neal, he was impeccably groomed despite the boxy fit of the suit, and his white dress shirt was crisp and fresh.

"Not until I've had coffee," Neal said, and flashed a fallen-angel smile. _He smiled too much—she had said so, hadn't she?_ Elizabeth snorted delicately and handed him a cup of joe. He took a grateful inhale and a deep quaff, then sighed in satisfaction. "_Thank_ you," he said to El, and slid into the seat across from Peter. Peter said nothing, but pushed the plate of bacon toward him. It smelled _wonderful_, and he lifted a couple of pieces onto his plate with a fork. It was Peter's turn to snort, and he reached over and picked up a piece with his fingers.

"Barbarian," Neal muttered into his mug, smiling as a piece of toast appeared on his plate, courtesy of El. She slid into her own seat with the other slice.

"What was that?" Peter demanded.

"Nothing!" Neal sing-songed, and grinned. He looked at Peter and saw Peter looking him over carefully, obviously not sure if he was over his sudden bout of honesty.

"You okay this morning?" Peter asked. His expression was carefully neutral, neither harsh nor solicitous, and Neal tried to parse through this poker face to come up with the right response.

"Sure," he lied, and flashed his brightest smile. "I slept like a log." Lightning didn't strike, so Neal assumed the universe had righted itself after last night.

"Good." That was said, gruffly, into his coffee, and Neal—who _could_ read people awfully well—found himself ridiculously pleased at the concern not-quite-concealed by Peter's acerbic tone. "I'll drop you off at June's so you can change, unless you don't think you can handle work today-"

"I'm fine," Neal said levelly, and his eyes met Peter's over the steaming mug of coffee. "I worked _yesterday_. I can work today." He fought the way bitterness tried to twist his lips. He'd had quite enough down time, _thank you_. He did not _want_ to be home alone all day—or home with _Mozzie_ all day, if it came right down to it—with Dr. Summer's voice in his head, reminding him of what a lost cause he was.

"So you did," said Peter. "Look—I've been thinking about this. We've got Jacoby, but I'd like to get—we _need_ to get Summers. Agreed?"

Neal's voice was grim. "Agreed."

"Good. I'm glad we're on the...glad you agree," Peter finished awkwardly. "I don't know what we can do to get her to tip her hand, but I'm open to suggestions."

"I've got one," said Neal, his voice flat. Their eyes met for a moment, and Peter was once again sure of two things: (1) Neal's idea—whatever it was—would probably work; and, (2) he wasn't going to like it.

In the end, Peter waited for Neal to dress and come down. The had sketched out a couple of broad strokes, but Neal had been pretty tip-lipped about what he planned to say when he went back to see Dr. Summers. His dress—usually impeccable—went beyond perfection today. Peter half-expected photo crews to pop up behind the parked cars and start snapping pictures. But Peter was no slouch in the people-reading department himself. He knew that, for Neal, clothes were part of the persona he wanted to carry off. Neal's persona today radiated charm, sophistication and cool, smooth like old jazz or ancient whiskey. Neal had been evasive last night, this morning and in the car ride over, but it was obvious that _something_ that the doctor had said had hit a nerve—or several. If he wasn't so damned _irritated_ at Neal over, well, _**pick**__ something_ that had happened (or was happening) this month, he might had tried to pry, but _his_ touchiness and _Neal's_ touchiness were striking sparks off each other and he didn't want this investigation to ignite before they had gotten Summers.

Even so, two hours into the office, he'd finally had to lock his office door and _demand_ that Neal tell him what he planned to do. He'd been against it—at first—concerned about the legality of several points, but Neal had reminded him in a flat voice that Summers had already broken more than just the law. Peter wanted to pursue _that_ comment further, but Neal's expression warned him off and he let it drop. Finally, aggrieved, Peter had allowed his objections to be overcome.

"Good," Neal had said, standing and starting for the door. "I'll call you when I'm ready for back-up."

"_Do_ that," Peter had said, then, "Neal-?"

"_What_?" The word was short, almost explosive. His surprise must have shown, for Neal immediately replaced the fierce look he'd worn with a charming smile from which he was horribly absent. Peter's eyebrows climbed, and he looked at Neal uncertainly, wondering if he was really up to this after...after _whatever had happened_ yesterday. After the drugs had worn off, and once he'd drunk some coffee, Neal had maintained an almost impenetrable deflection screen, evading or completely ignoring all attempts to talk about what she might had said that did not pertain to the case. _Something_ had stuck, and Neal was worrying it like a loose tooth, but Peter's polite (and _not_-so-polite) overtures had been staved off. Needing Neal for this case—and he _did_ need him—Peter had backed off, but only so far.

We'll be close," he'd insisted.

"Fine," said Neal, "but give me some room to work. She's already suspicious."

_So am I_, thought Peter, but he managed not to say it out loud.

He _really_ wanted to go home, but he plugged away at the real estate fraud case in front of him—or pretended to—and stabbed himself with a paper clip if his mind started to wander down the darker path that Summers had laid out a red carpet for. After insisting that he was tough and did not need to be coddled, Neal wanted nothing more than to go home, take a long shower and sleep in his own bed. He wanted oblivion, but it wasn't quite within his grasp yet.

The thing that had surprised him most about how it had gone down today was how angry he felt, and how good that anger made him feel when she was helpless before him. The look of surprise on her face, her dishevelment, the panic in her eyes—he had _relished_ those things, he had _enjoyed_ them. He had never enjoyed that sort of thing before—no, never, and his brain and his gut were doing everything they could to distance him from that flash of pleasure at her expense. He had wanted to trap her, had wanted to trick her—yes, but he had found the urge to violence _there_, behind his ear, behind his hands, behind his voice. It had taken all his effort to beat back that push, that press, until Peter arrived.

Taking the money...that had actually been an afterthought—at least, it seemed that way to him in the moment. Still, if he were honest (and he didn't much _want_ to be), he must have been _planning_ this on some level all along. The doctor had had a good scheme going—he'd admired it even while being repelled by the means she'd used to achieve it, but matching wits yesterday with the Doctor before she had drugged him (or the drugs had taken effect) had actually been somewhat enjoyable. In terms of sheer intellect, he didn't often meet his match. Peter—of course, and Mozzie, despite his idiosyncrasies, were more than able to keep up, and June was nobody's fool, but matching purely intellectual wits with Summers had been a thrill of sorts.

If anyone had asked him (and nobody had) what he'd expected when he'd sat down with a shrink, he wouldn't have known what to say, but whatever he'd been expecting or hoping had fallen into tatters almost from the get-go. She made him feel exposed and off-balance, and not just psychologically. He realized her chair was placed to frame her sitting form architecturally, imbuing her with even more authority. The light that came from the windows was designed to put _her_ in a positive light, but leave other parts of the room in shadows. Again, he admired the skill but shied from the misuse of power. But when she's been powerless, diminished before him...he had felt his blood thundering, his breath quicken, but that had quickly turned to nausea. He'd been glad when Peter had arrived, when he could fade back and let Peter do what he always did—take names and kick butt. He knew all too well what Summers was facing, so her parting shot, well-aimed though it was, didn't bother him. It _didn't. _At least, that's what he _told_ himself—again and again and again. Eventually, it would be true.

Peter had been watching him most of the day. He was usually aware of Peter's scrutiny from his office on high, but today he felt Peter's eyes—restless and uncertain—on him more than usual. Although they had not discussed it at all, Neal had stayed far away from Summers' interrogation. Peter hadn't asked, and Neal hadn't either. _Let sleeping dogs lie_. But when Peter had stopped by his desk—ostensibly to give him details—he'd given his polite con-man smile, feigned surprise and watched Peter walk away. Peter _knew_ he'd taken the money, _knew_ he'd done more than he'd admitted during his time with Summers, but it didn't matter. The money wouldn't be in New York long enough to matter. Still, even _knowing _ that, for whatever reasons, Peter had been treating him with kid gloves most of the day. Maybe, after spending some time with the lucid and sharp-witted doctor, Peter had had _some_ idea of what he'd been through. Not that he wasn't fine _now_. And he _was_ fine now. He _was. _

_He was a criminal. But he was fine._

_Just fine._


End file.
